Close, But No Cigar

So I went on my blind date last night; you know, the one my cousin arranged. I had spoken to the guy (we'll call him Chuck) on the phone a few days earlier. While I was mildly shocked to find that I didn't have to correct his grammar (see my post "There's Always a Fix-Up") and that he was really rather sharp, he did say a few things to leave me with the impression that the chances that he was "the one" were pretty slim. (Not that I was counting on that anyway; I'm just saying...) Anyway, he asked me if I'd like to meet up with him sometime while I'm home, but when I said yes, he said, "Great, what would you like to do?" That's a dating pet peeve of mine. I get that it's 2006 and I'm "liberated" and all, but if you're asking me out on a date, then you offer up a plan. But I digress. I suggested we take in a basketball game (which I was already planning to attend). He said, "I don't really get into sports, but it sounds like fun." YOU DON'T GET INTO SPORTS!? I could practically feel the words screaming up into my throat. How does one grow up in this area and not get into the local university's football and basketball programs? Really, there's nothing else here except for sports. But I tried to ignore all that and moved on. I told him I'd call to firm up the plans after Christmas.

So I called him back yesterday, and we decided to meet and have dinner first. He insisted on picking me up at my parents' house. If the first rule of first dates is to meet for coffee instead of dinner, the second rule of first dates is to meet your date at the date site so you can "escape" easily if need be. But, again, I digress. When I heard the diesel engine roar into my dad's driveway, I practically died. Anyone who drives a vehicle that sounds like a school bus must be a redneck. I rolled my eyes at my mom, grabbed my coat and purse, and headed for the door.

Just as my cousin promised, he bore a more than striking resemblance to my brother -- which is a little creepy. Who wants to date their brother? I soon found out that his personality and sense of humor were much like those of my brother as well. The good news is, though, that I do adore my brother and find him quite entertaining...and he's not a redneck. This guy didn't really seem like a redneck either, much to my surprise. In fact, I was surprised to find that we were able to talk easily. We have similar dispositions and senses of humor, and he's quite bright and witty -- a huge plus. He's also very tall, and you know how important that is. I tried to overlook the big diesel pick-up truck and all my previous judgments, and I decided to be very open-minded about the whole thing. We had dinner at the Outback (slightly rednecky, but then I hadn't had a steak in a while), and then went on to the game. We had fun (even him, the non-sports fan), but there really wasn't a spark of any sort. Why, you ask? There was no spark because, despite our similar personalities, we are incredibly different people. His passions are ATVs (he collects them!), guns (they have their own room in his house!), and auto racing. These things are slightly rednecky, and I have absolutely no interest in any of them. He is also a homebody, and I'm a social butterfly. Oh, and when I told him about this horrible murder case I had worked on once and the miscarriage of justice that followed at trial (a second degree murder verdict when it was clearly and undeniably a premeditated murder), he said, "Good! That chick deserved to have her face blown off. It's a good example to others like that." I wasn't quite sure if he was joking or being serious.

It's no big disappointment, really. I didn't have any great expectations for this date anyway. It was just another fix-up, and at least my cousin will get off my back about it now. And I wouldn't classify it as a waste of time or anything. I did have fun. It just wasn't a fit. So that's the post-date wrap-up.

Merry Christmas!

I'm back at home with my family now and enjoying the holidays, more or less. There's lots of last-minute stuff to get done, and that's never fun. But my 15-month-old niece is here to keep me entertained and well fed. She is very generous about sharing her animal crackers. Normally, I would find it very sweet, but she has an incredibly snotty nose this week, and before every bite that she shoves into my mouth, she wipes her snotty nose with her feeding hand. I've tried to politely refuse the bites, but she can't be dissuaded. Oh well...they're only germs.

So anyway, Merry Christmas to all!

I Heart Sweet People!

Many months ago, Ray was at my house, and he mentioned that his mom collected Willow Tree Angels. I mentioned that I collected them, too. Well, tonight, we all (Sharon, Ray, and some other friends) went out for Kevin's birthday, and at the end of the night, Ray gave me a Christmas present. (I had given him some Christmas cookies, but I certainly didn't expect a gift in return.) When I opened it, it was a Willow Tree Angel. I was so completely dumbstruck that I nearly cried. I can't believe he even remembered that conversation. It was one of the sweetest gifts I have ever received!

The girls at Kevin's birthday party (me on the far right).











Ray and Kevin.












Sharon and me.

Atoning for My Sins

Last night I helped count money for the Salvation Army for over 2 hours. (I'm doing it again tomorrow night.) It was kind of fun, certainly more fun than ringing the bell. Then today Ray stopped by to get some of my cookies. No...not that kind of cookies. He brought his mom with him for Pete's sake! She was so bubbly and friendly, and she clearly adores Ray. Had she not needed to get to work, I think she could've stayed all day and bragged on Ray. And Ray obviously adores his mom. He spent the entire day (with the exception of the stop at my house) running errands with his mom and taking her to work. He called me later to thank me for the cookies and for visiting with his mom. He said that she had been down lately and that it meant a lot to him that I took the time to talk with her. How sweet is that? He's such a good boy! It's just so funny to me because he looks like he could break a man in half over his knee, but he's such a softie.

This afternoon I went to volunteer at the hospital, and after that...I went to...duh, duh, duuuunnn...confession. I hadn't been in who knows how long. I mean, I've done the communal penance thing, but this time I felt the need to do a full-on, "bless me, father, for I have sinned" confession. (Don't even think about asking what I confessed! That's between me and Fr. Whatshisface.)

So here are my thoughts on confession: I'm not sure I believe in it anymore. I mean, I get that it's an exercise in humility and all, but isn't it really between God and me? And I've already begged God for forgiveness. He knows what's in my heart and my mind, so why do I need to tell some priest? The only forgiveness that counts is God's forgiveness, and only He can offer it. Moreover, most of the time, I don't have anything major to confess. It's usually the sort of stuff you hear from a 10-year-old.

I've had some seriously bad confessions, too. When I confessed my loss of my virginity, the priest actually started lecturing me! Hello!!! That is not how it's supposed to work. The priest should sit there and listen without judgment, then gently and understandingly impress upon me the virtue of grace, tell me what my penance is, and absolve me of my sins.

And then I usually try to confess to a priest I don't know. On those rare occassions when I have a big sin to confess, I don't want to confess it to Monsignor, who I then have to face week after week in the communion line. How awkward would that be? But that doesn't always work out. When I was living back home, I had to go to confession at my sister's church because I had missed confession at my own church (she and I went to 2 different Catholic churches in town). There were 4 priests there, and I knew 3 of them; so I confessed to the 4th priest. I was facing him (no real harm since I didn't know him and likely would never see him again), and I started in. "I have a sister who I really...don't like. [Hate is a strong word.] I know I should forgive her for the things she has done, but I can't." The priest stopped me and said, "Is it Erica?" (Obviously, I'm not about to use her real name here!) I just looked up at him, dumbfounded. He said, "Oh, I'm sorry, aren't you one of the [insert last name here] girls? I thought you were." I said, "No, I am...it's not Erica." I then fumbled through the rest of my confession and dashed out as fast as I could. It turns out the priest had been a seminarian at my childhood church many years before. He remembered me somehow, but I didn't recognize him because he had changed...a lot. For all you priests out there, that's another confession no-no...don't let on that you know the confessor's life history, and don't interject pointed questions to dig deeper.

Do you see why I'm not such a fan of confession? But I did it, and I do feel a little better. That's not to say that I'm about to make it a weekly habit. Yearly, maybe. Of course, I probably ought to go back now and confess that I don't believe in confession...

So anyway, that was my day -- counting, cookies, confession.

Fight! Fight!

So the house next door to mine is vacant. I happen to know the couple who owns it, let's call them Natalie and Chris. They actually bought another house a couple of years ago and have been getting this one ready to sell; you know, painting, and fixing up the landscaping, and the like. It's been very slow going, though, because they only come over to work on it once in a while. You'll see people working for a few days one week, and then you won't see anyone again for 3 or 4 weeks. Well, last Monday, this ancient washing machine appeared on the curb in front of their house. I assumed they left it out for the garbage, which runs on Thursday. I was slightly annoyed, but figured the washing machine would be gone in a few days. No biggie. (I will point out, though, that there's a city ordinance that says you can't put out your garbage before 6pm on the night before it is to be collected.)

Then early Wednesday evening, the lady across the street (call her Shelley) came over and asked me about the washing machine -- had I noticed it, was I as annoyed as she was, etc. Shelley informed me that the garbage men would not take it unless the neighbors had called in for a special pick-up, which costs $45. Knowing that I know Natalie and Chris, she asked me for their phone number, which I didn't have. Dumbass that I am, though, I volunteered to go get my phone book and try to pinpoint it. Natalie's work number was easy enough to pick out, so I offered it to Shelley. She immediately decided to call Natalie at work. Before she got through on the phone, I told Shelley to keep me out of it because it would be awkward for me.

I heard the entire conversation from Shelley's end. She was very polite, but impressed upon Natalie that the washing machine was unsightly and needed to be removed as soon as possible. She also reminded Natalie that the garbage men would not pick it up unless Natalie and Chris arranged for a special pick-up at the cost of $45. Natalie slipped up and confessed that she and Chris don't pay for garbage service anymore (even though their workers always leave trash out) and that it was her hope that someone would just come by and take it. When Shelley pressed her and said that that was not likely to happen any time soon, Natalie got mad, said "it will be gone tonight," and hung up on Shelley. A few hours later, the washing machine was gone. End of story? Apparently not.

Today the washing machine magically reappeared...along with a sign that read, "Don't ever talk to my wife that way again!" Shelley was not happy and called me to verify that she had not been rude to Natalie. I instantly panicked because I just know that I am going to be dragged into this ("Well, Lara was there. Ask her if I was rude!"), and I was hoping to buy a little bit of Natalie and Chris's land before they sell the house so I can put in a parking pad. I think this could get very ugly, and I sooooo don't want to be part of it. I hate to say it, but both Natalie and Shelley have serious bitch potential. I would 10 times rather deal with the old judgmental pervert across the street than be in the middle of a battle royale between Natalie and Shelley...

Long Weekend After Long Week

So my weekend...just as exhausting as my week. I ended up ringing the bell for the Salvation Army for 3 solid hours Saturday afternoon. I'd love to say that it was so fulfilling that I didn't get bored, but I did. Standing on your feet in front of a Wal-Mart for 3 hours is not fun, no matter why you're doing it. My relief shift came in the form of 2 friends I haven't seen in several weeks. They asked if I wanted to go out later, and I laughed. Actually, I think I said, "Hell no. I'm going to mass, then I'm going home and going to bed."

So I did go to mass, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. I had agreed, though, to meet Sharon out for dinner, so I met her at Max & Erma's afterward. Just as we were cashing out, Sharon's phone rang. It was one of the friends from earlier in the day, we'll say his name is Ray. Sharon didn't answer. She was just as tired as I was and knew full well why Ray was calling. Ten seconds later, my phone rang...Ray. Well, I'm a sucker for Ray, so I answered. Sharon was visibly annoyed. Ray said that he and the other friend, "Kevin," were heading to a bar called The Same Old Place. At first I resisted, but when Ray pressed on, I gave in and told him that Sharon and I would stop by for a drink.

Ray and Kevin were already there when we arrived. I ordered a beer, and Sharon ordered water. We agreed...1 drink and then we'd leave. Well, 3 hours and 3 drinks later, we left. It was 2am. Yep, that's what I said...2am. But we just couldn't leave before then. Kevin was on fire last night! I have never laughed so hard! And Ray, well, he's oddly charming in a way that I can't put my finger on, so I sort of wanted to stay (even though I spent most of the evening thinking about the "Boy from Seattle" and wondering what he was doing in Korea).

I pretty much passed out from exhaustion when I got home, and I ended up sleeping in until nearly 11am. I didn't really move from bed until 2pm, when I got up to take a shower; and from there I started my baking and candy making. (I'm a domestic diva at Christmas.) I ended up spending almost 6 hours in the kitchen, and I probably have another 5 or 6 hours ahead of me tomorrow when I make 2 more batches of cookies and one last batch of candy.

Needless to say, my weekend ended up not being very restful, and I'm still exhausted. But in the words of Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow is another day, and maybe I can rest a little then.

So...tired. Can't...type.

It's been a hell of a long week. The sad part is that all it entailed was Christmas shopping, having visitors, and writing out Christmas cards...and yet I'm exhausted. In fact, as soon as I wrap this up, I'm going to bed. When did I become the sort of person (dare I say it, old person) who goes to bed at 9:30 on a Friday night?

Back in the day, I wouldn't even have been out on the town at 9:30; I'd still be fixing my hair and picking out a purse! We used to head downtown around 10 to this club called Cedo's. Officially, we were the girlfriends of bartenders and bouncers, but, really, we were barflies. (How do you think we met these bartender boyfriends?) We'd drink and dance and carry on for 4 straight hours and shut down the bar (back then I wasn't afraid for the lights to come up). We were hungry after all of that, so we made a pit stop on the way home to fill up on fatty food chased by Diet Cokes. And on more than one occasion, we saw the sun come up on our way home. The next day we'd be up by 8 or 9 and off shopping or, amazingly, in class. We did this Wednesday through Saturday (nobody who mattered went out Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday). I never had a hangover. I never felt tired. I never took a week off to "recover." HOW THE HELL DID WE DO IT?!

I spend 2 afternoons Christmas shopping, 2 days entertaining my parents, and 1 evening writing out Christmas cards, and I'm ready to check into the local hospital for the Mariah Carey special! I wish I was 25 again. I wish I was out right now with a beer in my hand and guy in my back pocket. I wish the music was pounding and the crowd was loud. I wish I was wearing a low-cut, clingy shirt and a pair of just-slightly-too-tight black pants. Wait...no, I don't...even writing about it is exhausting. I'm just going to bed.

There's Always a Fix-Up

Being the single girl in the family has its advantages and its disadvantages. The main disadvantage: No one likes being the odd girl out. What's worse is that I have one sister who dwells on the fact that I'm the odd girl out. "I know you must be terribly lonely." "I don'think you should watch shows about weddings. Doesn't it make you sad?" "I know that someday you'll find someone." Good Lord, woman! Are you trying to give me a complex?! The advantages: My parents feel compelled to buy me dinner every time I go home. I still get Christmas and birthday gifts from my other siblings. One of my sisters and her husband always try to include me in their plans when I'm home (and they always pay). My nieces and nephews still see me as the "cool" aunt because I still party like a rock star.

One mixed blessing of my single status is the inevitable fix-up. One sister is married to a doctor. Of all my sisters, I would love for her to fix me up...with a doctor. However, she isn't the one who tries to fix me up. Last year, the sister who bathes in my singleness called me about a cousin of a friend (never a good start) who was desperate to meet someone. See, there aren't many people our age left back home, and he was lonely for companionship. The guy was allegedly attractive, tall, well-educated, and -- most importantly -- gainfully employed. The story went that he couldn't find a smart, attractive girl who could carry on a decent conversation. He complained that he was always having to carry the conversation and that, otherwise, the dates dragged. Well, I am nothing if not chatty, and I love a free meal, so I agreed to go out with him. We exchanged a couple of e-mails in which he seemed witty and intelligent. Oh, and did I forget to mention that the attached picture showed him to be a stone fox?

So I made a special trip home just to go on a date with this guy. We met at a restaurant for dinner, which was a mistake. A first date should always be a coffee date. Coffee dates are flexible. They can be a half an hour, after which you can make your easy escape because how long does it take to have a cup of coffee? And if they're going well, coffee can turn into lingering conversation, followed by dinner and perhaps a movie. Anyway, this was a dinner date. When my stone fox arrived, we introduced ourselves, grabbed a beer and then headed for a table. Immediately, I found myself having to take charge, which I really hate. I asked him how long he'd been living in the area. He said, "A year and a half." *Pause* "So do you like the area?" Answer: Yes. "Did my sister mention that your aunt gave you the house you're living in?" Answer: Yes. *Pause* "So where did you go to school?" Answer: Virginia Tech. "Oh, really? What did you study there?" Answer: Mechanical engineering. *Pause* "I went to a small school in Virginia. I studied biology. *No reaction, awkward pause* "OK, well, um, what do you like to do in your spare time?" Answer: I don't know.

You see where I'm going with this. Trying to get him to participate in the conversation was like pulling teeth! And he was complaining that he always had to carry the conversation?! He must've dated mutes in the past. It was the most painful, awful date ever. Stone fox or not, it was a complete waste of my time. I mean, even if he was totally uninterested in me, at least make the night tolerable. Chat it up, then say, "Well, it was nice to meet you. Have a nice life." But for the love of Pete, say something!

So tonight when my mom mentioned that my cousin wanted to fix me up with a co-worker, I rolled my eyes. According to my cousin, this guy is "very nice" and "just needs someone to keep him company." Apparently there's one of those done-wrong-by-a-girlfriend stories behind this guy, so she's dying to introduce him to someone and thought I would be perfect (assumedly and simply because I happen to be single, too). I'm apprehensive because (a) my cousin is a little dingy herself and (b) the only descriptive qualities she enumerated were that he is 6'2" and "very nice." Still, who am I to pass up a free meal? I imagine the date would consist of him telling me all about how his last girlfriend cheated on him with his best friend and how she's the only girl he ever loved. I'll nod and do the sympathetic head tilt thing, all the while mentally correcting his grammar and wondering why he didn't bother to iron his shirt before putting it on. Then we'll do the whole it-was-fun goodbye, and my cousin will pounce on me at church the next day and ask for all the dirty details. Even knowing how misguided my decision is, I'll do it. I'll accept the fix-up if for no other reason than I can't really see a reason not to. Ah, the pitfalls of being single. You always have to accept the fix ups.

The Man at the Cemetery

There is a cemetery not far from my house, and I pass by it every day on my way to work. One day this summer I noticed a new grave on the edge of the cemetery, right along the street. I know it seems morbid that I would even notice such a thing, but with flowers covering the dirt, it was hard to not notice it. The next day, as I drove by on my way to work, I noticed a van parked along the edge of the cemetery and a fragile-looking man with white hair sitting alongside the grave. I thought to myself how sad and how fresh must his grief be. The next day, he was there again, and the next day, and the next. Somewhere along the line, I must have just gotten used to seeing that van there because for a while it slipped my mind. But then a couple of weeks ago, when it was cold and rainy and the wind was sweeping across the hillside, I took notice of the van again. This time, though, the man sat inside the van, protected from the elements. And it hit me...rain or shine, warm or cold, that man is there every day. I felt my breath catch in my chest at the thought of how much he must love whoever is buried there. I can't bear to think of his unspeakable grief and the hole that must be left in his life.

Today, as I drove out to the mall to finish my Christmas shopping, I saw him again, sitting on the hillside next to that grave. I just wanted to jump out and sit with him and hold his hand. This will be his first Christmas without that person. I can't imagine how that must feel. I can only hope that the love that those two people had for one another sustains him through the holidays. And I can only hope that I have that sort of love in my life some day.

Too Neurotic for a Cat

I can't sleep, so I guess I might as well go ahead and tell you about the cat. First, let me set this up for you. When Brian and I lived together, we had 2 cats,Tardo and Dewey. Actually, they were Brian's cats. Tardo had been with him since his first marriage, and he rescued Dewey from the alley about a year after he and I started dating. Tardo was the most anti-social cat I have ever met. If you tried to pet him, his back and tail would go rigid, like your very touch made ice water run through his veins. Of course, you were hard pressed to pet him because he usually bolted as soon as you entered the room. Dewey, on the other hand, was very friendly. In fact, he was very dog-like. He was attention needy and would greet you at the door. He would even fetch hair ties. Dewey was always either under foot or in your lap, but I could deal with that. What I couldn't deal with was the fact that both cats were chronic pukers. Every time I turned around, I found regurgitated cat food or, sometimes, flat-out vomit. It was disgusting. On top of that, Brian was not very good about changing the litter box, so the basement always stunk. And you couldn't keep Dewey off the kitchen counters or the beds or the dining room table. I hated living with those two cats, and I didn't hide it.

Brian thought that I just wasn't a cat person in general, but I had had a cat as a child. Of course, since I was only 8, my mom dealt with the feeding and the litter box, and the dragging the cat out from under our bed every morning, and the peeing in the corner...but still, I had very fond memories of that little black cat. So when I bought the house, I started thinking about getting a kitten.

Finally, in October, I went down to the shelter and adopted a beautiful little black cat. She was 12 weeks old, and she was perfect...or at least she seemed perfect. I paid the $50 adoption fee, packed her in her new crate, placed her in the front seat of the car, and headed for home. She cried and cried the whole way...until she stopped...suddenly. Then the car was filled with the most foul odor! I was only 2 minutes from home, so I waited until I got home to look in the crate. The cat had both vomited and had diarrhea inside the crate. The blanket was a mess. The cat was a mess. I was instantly ill and regretted ever going to the stupid shelter! I carefully pulled the cat out and attempted to wipe her butt. Have you ever tried to wipe a cat's butt? No? Well, they don't really like that. So she leapt from my grip and immediately disappeared into some unseen hole under the kitchen cabinets. I panicked! How would I get her out?! I just bought this house! I wasn't ready to tear apart the kitchen cabinets to rescue some stupid cat! I called Cheryl at work, but got her voice mail. I burst into tears, dropped to my knees, and started patting the floor, sobbing, "Come out, kitty. Kitty, come out here. Kitty, I swear to God, if you don't come out right now..." She popped back out, and I immediately grabbed her and shut her up in the basement until I could finish cleaning up the mess she'd made in the crate.

When I went to the basement, she was cowering in the corner. I called and cajoled until she came to me, and then I finished cleaning her up. I took out a blanket and laid out some food and water and left her in the basement all night to be sure she wouldn't poop everywhere. When she had proved her intestinal fortitude the next day, I let her upstairs. She immediately began clawing at the furniture. I told her "NO!" and squirted her with water, but that doesn't really mean anything to cats. She cried and cried all day, even though I was giving her attention and trying to calm her down. The crying continued through the night as she clawed her way up my quilt and then jumped back down to the floor over and over again.

The next morning, I went downstairs and found cat food scattered on the floor and her one little toy carelessly left in the middle of the kitchen. My heart started pounding at the sight of the disarray in my orderly little kitchen. I had to get out of there! I went to Wal-Mart to buy the kitty a bed, and when I returned, the situation had deteriorated. Cat litter was flicked out all around the litter box. Worse yet, lying on the floor next to the litter box was a piece of poop! That was it! I ran up to my bedroom and shut the door, leaving the cat crying outside. As I sat crying and rocking on the edge of the bed, Cheryl called. When I told her what had happened, she told me that I needed to get a grip. OK, maybe that was true, but the new, neat me can't handle cat poop on the carpet and cat food on the linoleum. To make me stop crying, Cheryl promised she would take the cat when she got back into town in a couple of days. So I bucked up and went back downstairs and picked up the poop.

The next day, I took the cat to the vet for a well-kitty check-up. In the 4 minutes that it took to drive to the vet's office from my house, the cat had diarrhea again! I was so mad, but I calmed myself down knowing that Cheryl was going to take her in a few days.

Only Cheryl didn't take the cat. She changed her mind. It turns out, she didn't want her furniture torn up or cat litter caught in her carpet either. (Cheryl, you need to get a grip.) I was so upset! She had promised me she'd take the cat. I had let 6 perfectly good days go by when I could've found the cat another home! Now I was 6 days behind in reclaiming my life from this little cat. I said, "Fine. I'll just take her back to the shelter tomorrow." Cheryl hated for me to do that, so she directed her assistant to take the cat. The next night, Cheryl's assistant begrudgingly came and got the cat. As soon as they pulled away from the house, I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders. I was free again!

It was far better for the cat, too. The assistant ended up giving the cat to a family who had recently lost their own cat. I'm sure they are much more loving to her than I could ever have been. Look, I'm not a terrible person. I'm just too neurotic for a cat right now. Maybe when the charm has worn off with the house, I'll get another pet. For now, though, I like not worrying about cat litter and clawed furniture.

Christmas at Chez Moi

From the moment I put an offer in on my house, I started thinking about
Christmas. Where would I put my tree? What would I do outside? How
Griswold could I be on this sleepy little street? And when I made the
misguided decision to get a cat back in October, one of the things that
led me to find her a new home just 10 days later was the thought that
she would would probably wreak havoc on my Christmas tree (but more
about that in another blog). In other words, I've been looking forward
to Christmas in my new home. So here are some pics of my Christmas
decorations.


Obviously, I didn't get very Griswold. Part of the problem is that I don't have a ladder. A ladder is key to hanging
icicle lights and wreaths on windows and things such as that.








My one Griswold touch, the snowmen. I am so not into things like this, but I had to have the snowmen.














I love my tree. It's not one of those theme trees; it's veryhodge-podge. I have all the brass ornaments my mom used to buy us
when we were kids, the White House Christmas tree ornaments from 2001 and on, ornaments from my travels, and ornaments I've received as gifts. It's just a very homey, traditional Christmas tree.

The Tree Hunt

While I was in D.C. this week, I went with my sister and my niece to find a Christmas tree. My niece is 15 months old and is still getting used to the whole concept of walking in shoes. Besides that, her little winter jacket is about 2 sizes too big for her. Much like Randy in the classic "A Christmas Story," my niece cannot put her arms down when she's wearing this jacket, and the sleeves come way past her little fingertips. It was pretty hysterical to watch her walking up and down the rows of Christmas trees in her cold weather get-up. She was laughing and doing her best to run down the row when all of a sudden she fell over. She rocked up on her fat little belly and perfected a face plant in the bare ground. My sister and I were laughing so hard that we couldn't even help her up. She just laid there on her stomach with her little arms stretched out to the side. My sister eventually regained her composure and helped her back to her feet. Her little face was all squinched up, and she had a mouth full of leaves and dirt. It didn't stop her, though. As soon as my sister cleared all the debris from her tongue, she took off again...and fell again...and again. It's those little moments in life that make the best memories.

The Boy from Seattle

So do you remember when I was talking about Seattle, and I mentioned meeting someone out there, but I said, "That's another story"? Well, here's the other story.

One of the reasons that my friend ("CJ") wanted me to go to Seattle with her was to meet a guy she had met while both of them were serving in Iraq. Let's say his name was James. Anyway, CJ has long said that she thought James and I should meet. Of course, when it first came up, James was in Baghdad, and, strange as you may find this, I didn't have any immediate plans for a Baghdad holiday. Needless to say, I blew the whole notion of meeting James off. Of course (and thankfully), James returned safely from Baghdad, and re-settled into life in Seattle. CJ again suggested that I should meet him, but, again, I blew it off. Have you ever seen "Sleepless in Seattle"? Remember the scene when Jonah is insisting that Sam should meet Annie, and Sam pulls the U.S. map down (don't we all have one of those in our kitchen?) and says, "Where's Seattle?" Jonah points to Seattle on the map. Sam says, "And where's Baltimore?" Jonah's shoulders drop and his head tilts, and he can't bring himself to point out Baltimore; and Sam says, "That's right! It's over here! There are like 20 states in between!" Well, that was sort of my whole attitude about the you-should-meet-James thing.

CJ is nothing if not persistent, though, and in October she brought it up again. Of course, you know the rest of the story about how I ended up in Seattle (and if you don't, see my previous "Thank you, Seattle!" post). When I agreed to go, I did it simply because I had never been to Seattle, and I needed that little bit of adventure in my life at that time. I wasn't thinking about meeting James. I didn't have any expectations about it. I was simply going to Seattle. And then I saw him at the airport.

The first thing I noticed -- he was perfectly tall (6'2" or 6'4"), and that is the single most important physical attribute to me. What? That's not weird. I happen to like tall men. The second thing I noticed (since I was drawing closer to him) were his crystal blue eyes framed by his long, curly eyelashes. I almost swooned like Aunt Pitty-Pat in "Gone With the Wind." I have never seen a man with more beautiful eyes than his. All of a sudden, I wished that I had taken the time to brush my hair and fix my lipstick before getting off the plane. I'm sure there was a brief introduction, though I don't remember anything but those eyes.

We left the airport and went to dinner at a great little sports bar near our hotel and across the street from the Space Needle. We all chit-chatted and had a drink, and then James took us back to the hotel. As we pulled up under the portico, CJ said, "I'm going up to bed, but I think you two should go have another drink." (Persistence is one of CJ's strong points; subtlety is not.) It would have been rude for me to say no, so we went to a quirky little bar in a sort of bohemian little neighborhood where James introduced me to one of the local brews (Pyramid -- check it out). We talked easily, and I thought, "I could really like this guy." We saw each other again the next night and the night after that.

I could write a book about my time spent with James during my trip to Seattle, but I'll just say that I was sorry to leave and even sorrier to know that James would be leaving for a one-year deployment to Korea in just a few weeks. I tried not to give the whole thing much thought, but it was hard. It was such a shame because I really felt like at another time and in another place, we might really hit it off.

Just a week or so later, James got his orders with an early December departure date. My heart sank a little until I found out that his trip to Korea would include a stop in D.C. (Yeah, I thought the same thing: How is D.C. on the way to Korea? That's the government for you.) I was going to be in D.C., too, to visit my sister, so we planned to meet up. We had dinner and drinks in Alexandria, and that just sealed it for me. James is good-looking, tall, smart, witty, fun, Irish, Catholic...it all makes for a such a great start. But where could it go from there? I could make a trip to Seattle once or twice a month, but Korea? It's heartbreaking!

Who knows. Maybe we'll pick up where we left off this time next year. Maybe we won't. And if we don't, then at least I can say that I went on the world's most long-distance blind date, and that's not a bad story to tell.

The Lunch Date

Two days later, Mr. Cheatum came knocking on my door and announced that he was hungry and wanted me to have dinner with him. I apologized and said that I had plans for dinner, and he said, "That's fine. We'll go to lunch tomorrow. I'll call you at noon." He then stroked my cheek and tried to kiss me on the cheek! Letch! I pulled away and said that I didn't know what my plans were, but he said, "Just don't make any plans for lunch." When I met my friends for dinner that night, I insisted that one them (I'll call her Sharon), go with me to lunch. Sharon was actually excited to meet Mr. Cheatum, so she gladly agreed.

The next day, promptly at noon, Mr. Cheatum called and said he'd be right over to pick me up. As he pulled up in his Buick, I noticed dents and dings and paint streaks which could only evidence either incredibly bad luck or an utter lack of driving skills. Sharon and I looked at each other and laughed nervously. I introduced Sharon to Mr.Cheatum, and she climbed into the back seat as I climbed into the front. From the get-go, the 10-minute ride was filled with near misses with parked cars, missed stopped signs, and unnoticed green lights. From the backseat, Sharon kept poking me in the shoulder, and I found it hard to keep a straight face. Once we arrived at our destination and climbed out of the car (remarkably unharmed), Sharon whispered, "My seatbelt does not work!" I stifled a laugh, and the 3 of us walked into the restaurant. Over the next 2 hours, Mr. Cheatum again repeated his life history, this time for Sharon's benefit. However, unlike me, Sharon happily volunteered, "I go to the United Methodist Church back in my hometown." I kicked her under the table. How dare she volunteer such a thing! I knew what was coming next... Mr. Cheatum turned to me and said, "I don't think you mentioned where you go to church." I stuttered and stammered and tried to think of how to handle the situation without opening the door to what was sure to become a religious "intervention" of sorts. Sharon chimed in, "She goes to St. Joe downtown."

I shot a look at Sharon, and she faded into the booth seat. Mr. Cheatum said, "I see." I quickly said, "Well, this has been fun, but Sharon and I are meeting friends in a half an hour, so we'd better get out of here." During the drive home, I controlled the conversation so as to keep it away from my eternal damnation.

Once home, we jumped out of the car and tried to race into my house, but Mr. Cheatum asked us to come look at some pictures he wanted us to see. We dragged our feet across the street as if on a death march to his house. Once inside, he showed us pictures of every Sunday school class he'd ever been part of, pictures of his wife, pictures of his old business, even NASA publicity photos of Buzz Aldren. But then the phone rang. I quickly pointed out that he should take the call, in case it was an emergency, and we ran back across the street to the safety of my house. Once inside, we collapsed in laughter at our misadventure, but then Sharon realized that her sunglasses were missing. I told her that she'd better pray she left them at the restaurant because she couldn't go back to Mr. Cheatum to ask for them back. She'd never get out again! She insisted that they were her favorite sunglasses and said that she had to have them back. So she literally crouched down and slunk back across the street, quietly opened the car door, crawled in, and grabbed her glasses. Then she gently closed the car door and bolted back across the street.

I would still be laughing about the while thing if I hadn't been brought back to reality. Within a week, Mr. Cheatum was calling me and dropping by, saying he had a video he wanted me to see. He asked if I could come over to talk to him about "things," but I repeatedly said no. He grew more and more insistent until I stopped answering his calls and knocks. I have no desire to hear about how I'm going to hell like his brothers. In the meantime, he looks at me with utter disapproval while his leaves continue to blow into my yard (a punishment for my misguided religious beliefs, no doubt). So, no, I don't feel sorry for the man. He is presumptuous and judgmental. And besides, it's just rude to let your neighbor's suffer because you aren't interested in taking care of your own lawn.

It Was All for Naught

So the cold front that wreaked such havoc out west whipped through this morning. As I was putting on my make-up, I heard this horrible noise, which I soon discovered was the wind whipping buckets of rain against the side of the house. At first I was just annoyed by the notion that any effort I made toward having a good hair day would only be defeated the moment I stepped out onto the porch. But then it hit me...THE LEAVES! All that time I had spent raking and picking up the leaves in my yard! The blister! The aching back and hamstrings! I ran to a window on the front of the house and looked out. It was just as I feared...all the leaves from Mr. Cheatum's yard were now in my yard! I was so mad, I couldn't even see straight. He pays someone to mow his lawn; why doesn't he pay someone to pick up his leaves?! I just wanted to go over there and pound on his door and then throw my rake and a garbage bag in his face when he finally answered.

But, of course, I can't do that. Mr. Cheatum is an 89-year-old widower. Oh no you don't! Don't start with that, "Well, that's sad. You should be more sympathetic toward him. He can't take care of his leaves." Please, spare me. Mr. Cheatum is no poor old man. Let me tell you a little bit about Mr. Cheatum.

About a month after I moved into the new house, I heard a knock at the front door along with the simultaneous ringing of my doorbell. Because I was off work for the summer and because I had no plans for that day, I was wearing a pair of yoga pants and a tight tank-top. That is, I was hardly fit for company. When I answered the door, there stood this shrunken up little old man with paper-thin skin and velcro tennis shoes. He introduced himself as Mr. Cheatum from across the street as he pushed his way into the house. Once inside, he proceeded to hand me a folder filled with the the sort of "sweepstakes" mailings that old people tend to get (scams that often trick their victims into handing over hundreds or thousands of dollars). Somehow, he knew that I worked at the Capitol, though, until that moment, I had never met him. He said, "I need you to take these to the Attorney General and take care of this for me. They won't answer my calls, and I call them every day. " Then he produced copies of letters which he had written to every one of our state's Congressmen and Senators, which said nothing more than, "I am one of your constituents, and I'm telling you that if you want my vote in the next election, you have to do the right thing." (The letters didn't specify what issue Mr. Cheatum was addressing, so one can only assume he was speaking generally.)

Since he was in my living room at this point, I invited him to sit down. BIG MISTAKE! Over the next 2 hours (during which he went from sitting in an armchair to being in very close proximity to me on the couch), he told me his entire life history which seemed to revolve mostly around his religious beliefs (he's apparently a Gideon and a Baptist). Throughout his story, he told me about the various people he had "personally saved" as well as the ones he couldn't "save." Of his brothers, he said, "I would've liked to see them again in heaven, but I won't. One of 'em was married to one of those Russian Orthodox girls and the other followed that Muhammedism. They're both in hell now." I immediately thought of the crucifix hanging in my hallway, a telltale sign that I was *gasp* a Catholic. I prayed that he hadn't noticed it and wouldn't ask my religious preference, and, oddly enough, he didn't. But the first opportunity I saw, I excused myself and then hurried him out the door, saying that I had a meeting to get to. Before he left, though, he made me give him my home and cell phone numbers, in case, he said, he ever had an emergency or was lonely. Greeeeaaat.

I Got a Blister!

A blister! From raking those stupid leaves! And you know what really pisses me off? Most of those stupid leaves were from my neighbor's oak tree! Stupid, annoying neighbor and his stupid, annoying oak tree!

I hate the yardwork part of being a homeowner. OK, the mowing I don't mind so much. I honestly kind of enjoy it. Raking leaves...not so much. I'm putting a leaf blower on my Christmas list!

Sick Day...Not Part of the New Plan

So I'm home sick today. Normally, I wouldn't take a sick day because I hate to feel like I'm missing something at work, but seeing as I am done for the term (have I mentioned that I begin a month-long vacation on the 1st?), I felt OK about leaving work at noon. Of course, now that I'm home, I'm thinking of all the things I should be doing here; so I'm trying to get to where I feel like going out and raking leaves. Ahhh...the joys of home ownership!

I bought this house back in the summer. After the big break-up, I moved into a great apartment, but when they put a notice under my door that they were about to raise my rent, it occurred to me that I could probably have a house payment that didn't run me any more than my rent. So without any real thought about the matter (no number-crunching, no credit checks, no nothing), I went online and started browsing the local listings. I found this house within 15 minutes. From the pictures, you could tell that it was well cared for and loved by whomever lived here. On a whim, I clicked the "e-mail for more info" button, and 2 months later I was moving in. When I signed the contract, I had a very brief "oh shit" moment, but once I closed, I never looked back. It is the perfect house for me, and when I leave, I will miss it.

It's 70-some-odd years old. There are 3 bedrooms and only 1 1/2 baths, but then I'm only one person. The interior doors are all original, and they are still fitted with their original glass doorknobs. The floors creak like crazy, but that's just part of the house's charm. The best part: the kitchen has a double oven! Granted, I don't cook or bake much, but when I do, how great is that double oven?!

This beautiful little house has turned me into a complete neat freak. If you had seen my apartment, you would never believe that, but it's true. I don't leave dishes lying around the kitchen. I don't leave clothes piled on furniture in my bedroom. I don't leave mail stacked on the counter. I don't even leave my remote control out on the coffee table! I am a reformed slob. I think it's because this house is mine. I didn't have pride in my apartments or even in Burt's house because they weren't mine. But this place is mine, and I want to care for it and love it as much as the people who lived here before me did.

Yes, I will miss it when I leave, whenever that may be.

The New Plan

What the Seattle trip taught me was that, at 20-11 years old, my life isn't over. There are still plenty of great adventures to be had. Yes, I'm a little behind. Yes, it's true that I wasted a lot of good years. Yes, my focus was a little...well...out of focus for a while. But that doesn't mean that I can't live it up now. My dreams aren't dead; they've just been sidetracked. I did something uncharacteristically carefree and spontaneous when I decided to go to Seattle (or at least as spontaneous as something can be when it requires a flight reservation). I took a chance. I spent a little money and flew across the country, and I ended up finding myself.

So now I'm trying to find myself a new place in the world. OK, here's the part that would make my mother have a stroke if I divulged my plans to her...I am absolutely ready to quit my job at a moment's notice and pick up and move if the opportunity presents itself. Yes, I know...the whole opportunity-presenting-itself thing hardly seems spontaneous. Spontaneous is quitting a job and moving even if the opportunity hasn't presented itself, but let's not get TOTALLY carried away here. But whereas before my search only took me as far as D.C. (where my sister lives) and was only a half-hearted, wistful notion, my new search is wide open. I'll go anywhere. I'll do anything. Well, I'll go anywhere but Arkansas or Kansas. Or either of the Dakotas. And I'll do anything so long as its within the federal system so I don't have to take another bar exam. (Now I'm really ruining my new-found rep for being spontaneous.) The point is, I'm going to actually work toward accomplishing those goals I set for myself in college. I'm going to make every effort to get out of this rut that I've been in for too many years.

Maybe things won't work out. Maybe I'll discover that I'm "here" for a reason. Maybe I'll find that God has some plan for me "here." But then maybe I'll find everything that I've ever dreamed of...

Thank you, Seattle!

"Here" is probably not as bad as it seems to me. I mean, if you grew up "here," you probably think it's a pretty swell place. If you went to college "here," this place probably holds a lot of fond memories for you. If you came "here" from a foreign country and know nothing of the United States except "here," well, then you simply wouldn't know any better. But I'm not from "here," I didn't go to school "here," and I'm not an immigrant or a status-challenged alien. So for me, "here" is hell.

There is a pall that hangs over "here." You can tell that, at some point in its history, it was a magical place swelling with money and culture and activity. It was a railroad town, then a steel town. The downtown "here" was lined with glorious department stores and grand hotels and beautifully gilded theaters. This was probably one of the places to be at some point in time. But the railroad has gone the way of the dodo, and the steel mills have been abandoned and loom on the edge of town like shadowy ghosts. The department stores are now neatly configured in a suburban shopping mall, the old hotels have been turned into office spaces and seedy apartments, and the theaters have fallen into disrepair as they have been put out of business by stadium-seat multiplexes. Once-bustling streets are now busy only on the lunch hour. Once-remarkable facades are now pocked with empty show windows and graffiti.

It's all very depressing, and it seems to mock my life. It's as if "here" is laughing at me..."You belong here -- your dreams are as dead as this town!" I go through these periods when I feel sorry for myself and wallow in the nothingness of my goals. But then, when I come back around, I think, "You did this! You made this bed!" And I start to wonder...can't I unmake it?

I recently went to Seattle for a long weekend. A friend of mine asked me to go. Actually, she wanted me to meet a guy who she thought I would really hit it off with, but that's another story. Anyway, when she first asked me to go, I said no. I didn't even think about it; I just said no. There were a million reasons not to go...I shouldn't spend the money, it's a bad time at work, I don't have time, I'd have to miss a home football game (at my alma mater), blah, blah, blah. But then one night, when I was out for one of my too-regular Friday night dinners with my friends and bemoaning the rut into which I had fallen, I decided that I should go. I needed to go. So I went. And I loved it. I loved everything about Seattle...the easy-going pace (although for a life-long east-coaster it was a tad annoying at times), the clean air, the beautiful vistas across Elliott Bay, the food, the people, the fact that there was no smoking anywhere (a minor detail, but a nice feature). So when it came time to leave, I didn't want to. I honestly contemplated not getting on the plane to come back. Obviously, I did. I had to. But it has inspired me to try to take my life back, and I am currently working on my escape plan...

Nothing Worked Out as I Had Planned

OK, so I know what I just said about living your life by a plan you make when you're 18...blah, blah, blah. But there's nothing wrong with looking back at some of the goals you set for yourself when you were 18. So that's what I did after I awoke from my relationship coma, and I realized that my solitary focus on the whole marriage/family thing had led me to forget a lot of the other goals I had set for myself.

I won't even pretend that, at 18, I knew precisely what career goals I wanted to pursue. I didn't. I mean, I had a major (biology), and it sort of followed that I would probably end up going to med school after that, but I never thought, "I will be a doctor." Of course, I also never thought, "I will be the COO of a Fortune 500 company," or "I will be a professor," and I sure as hell never thought, "I will be a lawyer." My career goals were more general: "I will be successful and admired by my peers." (Wow...my goals completely lacked focus!) I imagined that whatever I did, I would have an assistant and a fabulous desk, and my work would have an impact on the world around me. Those were my career goals.

My lifestyle goals were equally simple: I wanted to live in or near a mid-sized city, most likely Pittsburgh (close to family). I wanted to have a tight-knit circle of friends (much like the television show which seemed to define my college years) who I would go to trendy bars and shows and dinner parties with. I wanted to explore museums and eat lunch in a beautiful green park. I wanted to travel on the weekends and learn how to golf. And, of course, somewhere in there would be a husband and 3 incredibly well-mannered and gorgeous children.

None of that happened. I work in a state job which I like but which does not afford me success (at least not in the traditional, measurable sense) or admiration of peers. I have a decidedly unfabulous desk, which I tagged out of surplus; and I do all of my own typing and take all of my own phone calls. And, of course, my work does not really impact the world (which is why you've never heard of me).

Worse yet, I live in a very small, dying city (45,000) in one of the more economically and culturally depressed states in the country. There are no trendy bars, no Broadway shows, no dinner parties, no museums, and no beautiful green parks in which to eat my lunch. I rarely travel, and I still don't know how to play golf.

Why is this my lot in life? My dear, haven't you been paying attention? It's because of the tunnel vision. Believe me, had I not been so focused on trying to maintain that relationship, I would have left this town four years ago and moved off to some (at least semi) fabulous city, like Washington, D.C., or Chicago, or even Lexington. But no, I'm here...

The Moment of Clarity

For four and a half years, I had let myself continue in a loveless relationship, and for what? Because I felt pressured to live my life according to some plan I had developed as a freshman in college?! When the dust had settled and it was all said and done, I looked back on the last several years and thought, "How could I have been so stupid?" I would've married Burt! I would've married Burt, and right now I would be writing a blog about how unhappy I am in my loveless, sexless marriage. I'm so embarrassed to even admit that, but it's true.

But I'm on the other side now, and I can honestly appreciate how ridiculous that chapter of my life was. Don't get me wrong, it took me a while to get there. Almost immediately after the break-up...OK, IMMEDIATELY after the break-up, I started thinking about how I could find someone new to get my life plan back on track. I even signed up for one of those online dating sites (not that there's anything wrong with that). My stomach would turn every time I thought about my hrmphrmphrm birthday on the horizon, and I vowed that I would find a new "love" soon. But it didn't happen. (Have I mentioned yet that the dating pool in this town is actually more of a puddle than a pool?)

Six months after the break-up, I finally met someone, in a bookstore of all places. He was nice, and he was pretty cute. He gave me his card and asked for my number. We went out for coffee, which turned into dinner, which turned into a second date. He was perfect on paper, but something wasn't clicking. And the weirdest thing occurred to me...I wasn't interested in him, and I wasn't trying to be interested in him. See, always before, I was so focused on "the goal" that I would try to make whomever I happened to be with the perfect fit. That's how I'd ended up losing nearly five years of my life to Burt. But this time was different. I was simply going with the flow. And when it ended six weeks later, that was OK with me. I had finally broken through to the other side!

I could hardly believe my newfound sensibility, but there it was. With a new sense of purpose and clarity, I began to look toward other facets of my life -- career, residence, contributions to society -- and I saw a new problem. Forget the whole marriage-and-family-by-30 plan...my whole life was lagging behind!

The Second (and Final) Break-Up

About three weeks after our incredibly lovely weekend away, Burt began to pull away. He started working later into the evening, and he began spending an extra day on his out-of-town business trips. (No, I know what you're thinking, but at the time I didn't see it.) When he was at home with me, he couldn't look me in the eye. He wouldn't hug me. He would either sleep on the couch or wait until I was asleep before he came to bed. He would mope around the house and seemed nervous all the time.

I begged him to tell me what was going on, but he kept saying, "Let's not talk about it right now." This went on for eight weeks. And for eight weeks, I tried my damnedest to snap him out of whatever was eating him up. I was extra kind to him. I tried to be more affectionate toward him. I tried not to criticize or nag him. Nothing worked. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I begged him to please say it, whatever it was that was on his mind. He said, "I don't think we should get married." There it was.

All at once I felt this surge of emotion: anger, sadness...and relief. One of the first thoughts that popped into my head was, "Nice, asshole! You know, you can't return a wedding dress!" My relationship was ending (again), and THAT was my first thought. I asked him why he had asked me to marry him in the first place, and he said he didn't know. I asked him why we hadn't had sex in three years, and he said he didn't know. I asked him if there was someone else, and he said no. I got up from the bed and said, "I have to find someplace else to live."

That night I didn't sleep. But my thoughts weren't about the end of our relationship; they were about the end of this chapter of my life. My friends were our friends, and so that would be awkward. All the things I had done as one-half of a couple...charity balls, dinner parties, business retreats...now I was the odd woman out. Our weekend trips away; over. Having someone -- anyone -- to share a bed with night after night; no more. And the wedding! I had spent over $1200 already on the wedding! Oh no...I'd have to tell my parents. How do you start that conversation?

The next day I packed a bag and went to my sister's house to hide out while I tried to regroup. As she and I talked about my relationship with Burt, she began to express that she had had concerns all along. Apparently, everyone had. That made me defensive, and I started to think that I wanted Burt back in my life just on principle, to prove my family wrong. But I returned home two days later to find that nothing had changed, and my relationship with Burt was irretrievable. I told my parents. I'll spare you the details of the next few weeks, but it was much like any grieving process.

That was July. By November, I was just beginning to put it all behind me when I discovered that Burt had already met and begun dating another woman before he and I broke up. She was a business acquaintance. The hurt and humiliation re-opened the wound, and the grieving process began again. (I know, I know...I should have seen it from the beginning. But to be honest, it never occurred to me that anyone else in the western world could be interested in Burt. Not even I was attracted to him, and I was going to marry him!)

A year later, though, I am safely on the other side. It has now been six years since I first met Burt. I don't suppose I regret the relationship altogether, but I certainly regret that it dragged on as long as it did. We should never have reconciled after the first break-up, which was long overdue. More than that, though, I regret that I found myself in this situation (4 and a half wasted years) because I was so obsessed with a marital plan that I formed when I was eighteen years old. I honestly believed that it was better to be with someone -- even someone I didn't love -- than to be alone and childless.

In the meantime, I had let other facets of my life pass me by. I didn't pursue certain career goals because I was in a relationship with Burt. I didn't pursue certain personal goals because I was in a relationship with Burt. I let old friendships fade away because I was in a relationship with Burt. But I had learned a very important lesson: Happiness and success are not measured in rigid and ridiculous timelines that we set for ourselves as children. Life has to be more flexible than that, or we find ourselves in ugly situations.

OK, so now what?

You Break-Up for a Reason

Burt was absolutely gobsmacked. He started rattling things off about how he had changed his mind -- he did want to marry me, and he did want to have kids. He told me that he loved me. He said he didn't want us to end our relationship. Blood rushed to my head and my ears started ringing. I didn't know what to do. He was finally saying the things I needed him to say to get my life back on track, but at the same time, I knew that it still wasn't right. He was acquiescing because he didn't want to be alone, not because he wanted to be with me.

"No," I said, "this is what we need to do. It's too late. It's just too late." He cried and begged me not to leave. I tried to explain why it was over. I had practiced this speech for weeks, and I felt almost relieved to be finally saying it out loud to him. It was heart-wrenching, but liberating. Tears filled our eyes, and we finally sat silent. I got up to leave, and he followed me to the kitchen. As I took his apartment keys off my keyring, he sunk into a chair and sobbed. As sad as the scene was, I couldn't cry anymore. I just heaved a sigh of relief, gave him a hug, then left.

A few days later, we exchanged "stuff." He asked me to come back, but I said no. For weeks, we exchanged phone calls -- each one ending in tears, but each one ending with me standing my ground. I felt good, and in the meantime, Connor and I were re-connecting over the phone. That was March.

In April, Burt and I decided to try to do the "friends" thing. I took him as my guest to a speech the President was giving at the local University. We hung out casually at the bar where we had met. We talked on the phone regularly. But I knew all along...I was letting myself be drawn back in. Connor and I, in the meantime, had discovered that we really didn't have that much in common. Our phone calls were less and less frequent, and we eventually stopped calling each other altogether.

In May, Burt had a minor out-patient surgery. I offered to take him to the hospital for the procedure and then stayed with him that day to make sure he didn't need anything. That was the day that we unofficially got back together. That is, we didn't ever actually sit down and say, "So, let's give this another try;" it just sort of followed.

From the very beginning, it felt wrong. People break up for a reason. Burt and I broke up for a reason. We simply weren't compatible. We wanted different things in life. And, most importantly, we weren't in love with each other. He felt that it was wrong, too, I could tell. But he had his "plus one" again, and my life plan was back on track, so we muddled through.

I made it clear from the very beginning (or the second beginning) that I would not wait long for a ring. I wanted a commitment from him, and I wanted it soon. He balked at first, but in August we moved into a new house together. And on a cold, crisp night in November, we were engaged.

I should've been happy. I should've been excited. I wasn't. I knew deep down that it was a huge -- HUGE -- mistake. You don't marry someone you aren't in love with! Things won't get better; they can only get worse. As Bill Pullman said in "Sleepless in Seattle," marriage is hard enough without bringing such low expectations into it. Yet I moved on with the charade. I bought a wedding gown and veil. I started planning the reception and picking bridesmaid dresses. I ordered favors for the guests.

In an odd sort of way, Burt and I both accepted our fate. We actually began to grow closer. I tried so hard to be a better girlfriend to him, and he tried to be a better boyfriend to me. We showed more affection for one another, but it never rose to the level of intimacy. We were close friends, but that was the end of it. I had committed to marry Burt, though, and I would follow through with that commitment...and with the commitment I had made to myself to have a family by the time I was 30.

In April, we went out-of-town for a weekend trip. At one point, Burt turned to me, put his hand on my hand, looked into my eyes, and said, "You know, I love our life. I think we have it pretty good. And I love you." I smiled and absorbed his words and said, "I love you, too." I thought to myself, "OK, this is it. This is the turning point, and we can make this work." Just a few weeks later, everything changed.

The First Break-Up

We had now been together for 3 years, and we seemed to have stalled. We were just existing. There were moments when I'd think, "You know, sometimes it really is perfect." Every once in while, we were very loving toward each other and we really enjoyed being together. But then when I think back on those moments, they were mostly times when we were out with other people, so maybe we were just putting on a show. The rest of the time, we really took each other for granted.

I continued to have nagging doubts, and I thought of ending the relationship a hundred times. Even my friends were telling me that they thought I should move on. But after 3 years, the thought of starting over again (and getting even farther from my goals of marriage and family) was terrifying. So I stuck it out...knowing all along that I was settling.

Then in January or February, I got a call from an old law school boyfriend, "Connor." Connor and I had dated relatively briefly during his third year and my second year, but he had totally swept me off my feet. He treated me like he absolutely adored me, like I had always wanted a man to treat me. And there was this incredible electricity between us. It was perfect. But when he took a job out-of-town after graduation, he decided to end things. I was crushed. We met up once or twice after that, and every once in a while he would call, but I was always dating someone else. In the time that Burt and I had been together, he had called me probably 2 dozen times, but it was always as a let's-catch-up sort of thing. This time, though, he wanted more than to just catch up. He was living in the midwest, but he was about to be transfered cross-country. He told me that he had always regretted ending our relationship, and he asked to see me before he left. He said that he couldn't leave without giving it one more try. At first, I said that I just couldn't. I was with Burt, and we'd been together a long time, and I would never do that to him. But when Connor called again a few days later, I wondered, "Is this a sign? Is this my way out of a loveless relationship?" So I agreed to meet Connor in 2 weeks at a half-way point.

I decided that no matter what happened between Connor and me, I was going to end things with Burt. This was a sign, and I knew that I had to get out before it got any harder for us both. I began preparing myself mentally, practicing what I would say and distancing myself from Burt.

But I couldn't do it.

So I went to meet Connor. I had had to concoct some lie to explain to Burt where I was going. I felt awful about lying, but I didn't know what else to do. As I sat in the hotel waiting for Connor, Burt called to make sure I had arrived safely. I became sick to my stomach, and I panicked. I decided that I should leave and just go home. But then I heard Connor at the door. He immediately gathered me into his big, broad arms and hugged me like he'd been waiting a lifetime to see me. I was so torn in that moment. I had wanted for 3 years for someone to want me and love me like that, but at the same time, I felt awful about my betrayal of Burt. I started to cry. Connor thought that I was crying because I had missed him, but it wasn't that at all.

We laid on the bed in silence for 20 minutes, with me crying on his chest. In the end, I decided that I had to stop it. I had come all this way to see if Connor and I could be together again, to see if maybe we were meant to be after all. So I dried my tears, and we went off to dinner and then spent the rest of the night reconnecting.

The next morning, we went our separate ways, not knowing where we'd go from there. By the time I got home, though, I knew that I still had to end my relationship with Burt. Those tears weren't just tears of guilt. They represented 3 years of frustration and hopelessness. They represented my realization that whatever had been was now over.

A few days later, I went to Burt's apartment. I don't recall what it was, but something he said caused me to blurt out, "Look, I can't do this anymore. You don't want the things I want, and I just can't go on like this. I think we should stop seeing each other."

Burt

Things went very well at first. Burt and I got along well. He made me laugh, and we had a lot of fun together. But then, isn't that how all relationships begin?

For every one thing we had in common, we had a major difference. He is an only child of divorced parents. I'm the fifth of six children of still-married parents. The only child he's ever been around is himself, and he hates kids. I've been around children all my life, and I love (most) kids. He's not terribly sociable. I'm a social butterfly. And then there was the big one: Having been married and divorced, Burt didn't want to get married or have a family. Being 25 and already off-schedule, I was dying to get married and have a family.

It was the pink elephant in the room. We knew it was there, but we didn't want to face it. I thought he'd change his mind. Who doesn't want to get married and have a family? I mean, seriously...who would choose to live a solitary life?! Besides, if he loved me, he'd want to marry me and have children with me, right? Now, let me be perfectly fair to Burt here. At NO POINT in that first year did he ever mislead me to believe that he was even considering another marriage or children. In fact, he was clear that he didn't want those things. It was all me. I wanted him to want those things because I thought he was a good potential mate. (Notice I didn't say that I thought he was "the one.")

In the second year of our relationship, the "M" word started to come up a lot...from me, of course. Again, he made clear that he didn't want to get remarried. I started to have these gnawing pangs that I should cut bait and move on, but I was now almost 27! How could I start over that this point? Two years. I had invested two years in this relationship! I couldn't get out now. No, it just wasn't an option. New strategy: Show him what he's missing.

I started dragging Burt to various and sundry family and social outings. I immersed him in Thanksgiving dinners (25 people at my mom's dinner table!), children's birthday parties, the births of friends' children, and functions designed for "couples." I truly believed that he would have this epiphany, that he'd say, "Yes! This is what I want -- loud, chaotic holidays and dinner parties!" OK, so in hindsight it was a terrible plan. His dedication to his singleton life was only reaffirmed. He began to rebel. He showed me how much he loved his no-strings life by spending night after night at the bars and poker games. He canceled dates at the last minute to let me know that he didn't "owe" me anything. He became more vocal about how much he disliked kids and the idea of marriage.

And yet, he didn't want to end our relationship. In fact, he WANTED me. He NEEDED me. I was his "plus one." I was his guaranteed date for firm functions. I was his insurance against being a fifth wheel. No, Burt didn't want a family; but he didn't want to be alone either. So I stayed, and he stayed, and we limped on together.

By the next year, I was beginning to grow weary of the relationship. It was increasingly clear to me that we weren't in love with each other. We hadn't slept together in over two years at that point. And you know what? I didn't have any desire to have an intimate relationship with him. I wasn't attracted to him. I mean, I loved him and I cared very deeply for him, but there was no spark between us. We were great friends, but we would never be great lovers.

We had this wierd sort of partnership, only neither one of us had the same goals. I would settle for him, and he would settle for me. And that was the way it would be -- not ideal, but workable.

Meeting the Scedule-Wrecker

OK, so when I left off, I had just moved to a new town. I actually had some friends from law school in town, but I met this really crazy girl (but great friend) in my bar review class. Let's call her Jules. She looooooved to drink, and we would go out after work in the evenings for a few beers. Her boyfriend had this friend...we'll call him Burt...who looked like he was 40-something and always seemed so pathetic and lonely sitting there at the end of the bar night after night. Hey, I'm not passing judgment. Clearly, Jules and I were out every night, too. But my first impression of Burt was that he was probably this particular bar's resident drunk. Every night he sat perched on his lonely little barstool, moping around and drinking gin. He scarcely said a word. You certainly couldn't say that he was outgoing. I felt so sorry for him. I took it upon myself to bring him back to the land of the living.

I took it as a challenge. I would go in, have a few beers, then meander down to the end of the bar and MAKE him talk to me. I flirted and cajoled, and he eventually agreed to follow Jules and me to karaoke one night. I had gotten him off his bar stool! I couldn't believe it. Once I had broken him out of his routine (and his shell), I decided to set a new goal...I was going to make him ask me out.

I wasn't particularly interested in Burt. He wasn't particularly attractive, and I found him a little boring. Truth be told, I was actually seeing someone I worked with, but it was all very casual. Nonetheless, I was interested to see if I could open him up even more.

So I flirted and teased (including some making out in an alley behind his apartment), and one night he called me. It went something like this: "Hi, it's Burt. How are you?" "Fine, thanks. How are you?" "Oh, you know. How was your weekend?" "Good, yours?" "Good. Actually, it's not over, technically, so I was thinking of going to a movie." "Oh, yeah? Which movie?" "'Unbreakable.' It's playing at 7:10. So I was going to go see it." *awkward pause* "Yeah? Well, have fun." "Yeah, so that's what I'm going to do." *awkward pause* "So, Burt, I'm not really busy tonight. Did you want me to go with you?" "Well, yeah, sure. If you're not busy, that is. " "Nope. Maybe we can get something to eat, too." "Yeah, great! So should we meet at 6 or something?" "Six it is." I had never invited myself on a date before, and I would ordinarily be mortified by such behavior, but I found it oddly empowering that I so unnerved this guy that he couldn't even get up the courage to ask me out.

We met at 6 for dinner at a local Mexican restaurant (which would later become a weekly ritual), then saw the movie, then went to the bar where we'd met for a few drinks and some conversation. I found out that, though he LOOKED 40-something, he was actually only 33. (His silver-white hair and extra weight belied his relative youth.) He'd been married once before for 4 years to a girl he'd known for only a year before they'd married. He was an only child of a single mother. And he had some serious issues with his dad. By the end of the night, I wasn't any more physically attracted to him, but I was otherwise attracted to HIM. Let's face it -- there's more to a relationship than physical attraction. Burt was smart, witty, and -- though I could hardly believe it -- a lot of fun. We talked for what seemed like hours, and I was oddly drawn to him.

It had all started as some twisted social experiment, some ego-boosting attempt to make a sad, old drunk man want me, but that night marked the beginning of a four-and-a-half-year relationship...and the utter destruction of my life plan.

The Beginning

Who would have thought that, at 31, I'd still be single and childless? Certainly not me. I mean, I had it all planned out. I'd meet my husband in college (we'd marry right after graduation), we'd travel and indulge ourselves in a nice home and nice vehicles and expensive meals for 3 or 4 years, and then we'd have children (at least 2) by the time I was 30. Yet here I am -- no husband, no house, no BMW, and no children. So where did I go wrong? Or have I gone wrong at all?

I wasted my college years dating the same guy for 3 1/2 years, even though I knew from the beginning that he wasn't someone I'd ever want to marry. Don't even get me started. OK, so I'll just "get started" a little. He was lazy, he had no ambition, he was manipulative, and he was a serial cheater (by his own admission). But I had these life goals, and you know what they say..."a bird in the hand." It wasn't until my senior year that we finally broke up. When I graduated, I had a B.S., but no Mrs. No big deal, though, because I was going to law school, and what better place could there be to find a husband? Um, yeah.

If you've never been to law school, let me give you the lowdown: Law school is full of freaks and geeks...and maladjusted egos. The men are either so in love with themselves that there is no room in their hearts for anyone else or they have such tunnel vision that they have completely devoted their lives to the study of law or they have serious personality disorders which make them completely undatable. In the meantime, I had my own issues. I spent the first year getting adjusted to life in law school. (Did you know that you actually have to STUDY in law school? It was a completely foreign concept to me.) I spent the second year partying like a rock star. Finally, in my third year, I started dating one of my classmates. He was great, if you could get past the emotional distance and the recreational cocaine use. Don't get me wrong. We had a lot of fun at first, and he was incredibly smart and witty. I truly enjoyed spending time with him, and he was so perfect...on paper. But when you threw in his weekend coke habit and his overbearing mother, it didn't seem so perfect. But we had fun and my clock was ticking (remember, I was already off schedule). This time, I graduated with a J.D. and the serious prospect of an Mrs...and then we broke up 2 months after graduation.

So I took a job and moved away. I was beginning to panic at this point. I was 25, and I was thrown back into the dating pool in a strange town. I should've been married by then! I should've been pregnant! I mean, what good is a plan if it falls apart? Actually, I should've kicked myself in the ass and yelled, "Snap out of it!" because I was about to spend the next 4 1/2 years falling even farther behind...